


Bitter-Tasting Medicine

by gosh_zillah



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Dream Sex?, Drug Use, Fate, Lots of Satan in this one ya'll, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsessive Behavior, Satanic Binding, Somnophilia, Unhealthy Relationships, satanic rituals, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:40:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gosh_zillah/pseuds/gosh_zillah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he turns 17 his migraines become unbearable. His mom keeps him doped up, numb to the pain and making the world move even faster while he stays at a constant slow motion. He fades in out of consciousness between cigarettes and pills and looks at the cracking ceiling of his room for what feels like eternity and could rightfully be called so. When he lies in his bed he can feel the warmth of an arm around his waist and the smell of cheap liquor and cigarettes fill his lungs. He finds it comforting, it clears his head without the lingering feeling of pain.</p><p>But when he turns towards the warmth, chasing after it, the man in his dreams is not there. Stuart cries for the loss of the man he has never met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I made the first chapter longer ya'll, go read that

Stuart Pot has dreamed of a man with a glowing red eye sense he was 15 years old. Dreams that started out leaving him with a sense of unease but over all not a life changing emotion. Stu's since of unease is very constant in a world that moves just a bit to quickly for him to catch up. 

He dreams of this mans smirks and deep, resonating bass chords that call to him. 

It was the day before his 16th birthday he asked for a keyboard. Because the man in his dreams brings along melody after melody of beautiful, dark, dripping bass that leave his bones vibrating and his head buzzing after he wakes up. He remembers the chords and the light tinkling of piano keys is what Stu begins to think will lighten up the songs, so he can wake up without dried tears in his cheeks. 

He takes up smoking right after he finishes his accompanying diddy to the dream mans song. He goes to sleep the night after he first plays it to the emptiness of his room and the man in his head, and wakes up with the taste of tobacco in his mouth and swollen lips when he goes to brush his teeth. 

He skips his classes to chain smoke just outside of school, writing notes to the man in his dreams, hoping he will read them through his eye. Asking him to stop visiting him in his dreams and to never, ever go away. 

When he turns 17 his migraines become unbearable. His mom keeps him doped up, numb to the pain and making the world move even faster while he stays at a constant slow motion. He fades in out of consciousness between cigarettes and pills and looks at the cracking ceiling of his room for what feels like eternity and could rightfully be called so. When he lies in his bed he can feel the warmth of an arm around his waist and the smell of cheap liquor and cigarettes fill his lungs. He finds it comforting, it clears his head without the lingering feeling of pain.

But when he turns towards the warmth, chasing after it, the man in his dreams is not there. Stuart cries for the loss of the man he has never met. 

He turns 18 and his dad has had it with him. Tells him he's useless, a pill popper always doped up on norcos and lortabs and a shell of a person. 

Stuart pulls on a hoodie and promises to return with a job. 

His uncle gives him a cashier job, working every Saturday at his music shop for a little less than minimum wage. Stu doesn't care, he spends his paychecks on cigarettes and weed. He comes to work high and leaves the counter at 9:30 pm high, not having helped a single person. 

Girls have began frequenting the music shop, not to shop for keyboards but to talk to the greasy cashier with the blue hair, who despite smelling like fags and weed is cute in a.. Aesthetic kind of way. Stu appreciates the attention, appreciates the mouths on his dick every so often but he doesn't know how to tell any of these girls that he's... Not interested. 

Stu is 19 when he starts walking up every morning with bruises on his hips and a stiff cock under the sheets. There's an ache in his back that first is irritating but the one morning he woke without it made him realize that he's addicted to the feeling. 

The door chime rings as it is pushed open one autumn Saturday. Stu had just threw back some two of the white pills and looked a bit guilty at the newcomer before beginning to chew on the bitter tasting medicine. "Can I help you?" He asks with his mouth full. 

The man who has entered is at least in his 30s. His hair is thick and greasy as are his closed smudged with dirt. His skin is a filthy olive tan. He looks at Stu with an expression that could be amused but is blocked by the dark sunglasses the man wears. 

"Can you help me?" The man asks, sauntering towards the counter and picking up the bottle of norcos. He tuts at the milligrams. "No, no. Not in a few minutes. You'll be feelin' right as rain then but little use to me." 

Stu makes a noises he doesn't mean to make, keeps looking at the man with a pitiful expression that he can't stop. Stu's stomach twists and he can't help it he just blurts- "I have dreams about you." He mumbles, barely audible and once Stu realizes what he's said he's hoping it was to quiet for the man to hear.

The next thing he sees is a smirk of sharp, yellow teeth and he knows he has failed. "Do you now?" The man asks, in a rumbling chuckle. "Since when?" 

The man has made his way behind the counter and Stew finds himself pressed hard into the wall just to the left of the cash register with the man looming above him. He's divested himself of his sunglasses and there it is- that eye. Red and glowing like the sun and if Stu wasn't sure he was completely aware now. That this has been the man haunting his dreams. 

He’s just begun to feel the sluggishness of his drug of choice when he opens his mouth with the intent to speak and not just to breath in the mans nicotine riddled breath. “Years.” the word is riding out of his mouth with an exhale, he has to remind himself to breath even though with this man so close he feels as though he’s transcended the need to do so. 

This man from his dreams chuckles, his lips inches away from Stu’s as he says “Really? I ain’t ever been the man of anyone’s dreams before. What do i do in these.. dreams of yours?” He presses himself closer to Stuart and even though he’s never been very observant he can tell this man thinks it’s just some kid of pickup line. Stu’s never picked anyone up before, sure he’s sucked dick for various drugs and let some birds have their way with him but he’s never looked for anything but some temporary pleasure that meaningless sex and a good high can give. He’s never been god with words even before his teeth got knocked out and even worse after he started the drugs. How does he tell this man who he’s been crawling his way through Stuart’s subconscious and fucking him in his dreams making a mark in him that not even mind numbing narcotics can cure. He decide’s to give the man the answer he wants because even though this might end up just a greasy one night stand Stu will take what he can get. 

“You fuck me.” He breaths again, quietly, “In my dreams, i see them eyes of yours while you fuck me.” He’s ready for kiss he wants sooner that later and will do anything to earn. “I think it’d be fair to see if you lived up to my expectations.” He says, a little bolder this time. Red Eye’s is right he better get all the usefulness he can get out of his body while it’s still listening to him. He feels the sluggishness stronger now and there isn’t a damn thing he can to prolong his clear mind. 

It seems it’s to late because the man asks a question and he can’t pay attention log enough to piece syllables together. Instead he tilts up his head and closes is glossy eyes and hopes the man of his dreams will understand that his slightly parted lips that he needs this man to kiss him. He’ll be to useless for anything else in a couple of minutes and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see him again. Thankfully there is deep baritone laugh and then a long tongue pouring into his mouth. He recognizes the tight grip around his waist more than he feels the sharp pain of the counter digging into his back. 

He recognizes this moment as the most important moment in his useless life. He doesn't have to think about this kiss because this kiss has happened in his dreams a million times before. He melts into the familiar taste of this mans mouth and lifts his heavy limbs to grab weakly at the lapel of his thread bare t-shirt. He feels the sandpaper of his unshaved jaw and threads his fingers through greasy black hair. Through this he kisses back with all the vigor he can in his state of mind. This man doesn't seem to mind, he nips at Stu's lips and tilts the blue head back to delve his tongue in Stu's mouth until there is saliva wetting both there chins. They are both dirty and greasy and unsalvageable pieces of human waste. They are disgusting but Stuart has never felt a more beautiful moment in all his life. 

There is an indignant shout of surprise coming from behind them that could be nothing other than his uncle, having freshly woken up from his 8-hour nap. Between the stinging hickies the man has begun sucking into his neck, Stu doesn’t pay attention to the disgusted yelp his uncle about how this exact line of events could have happened. Stu doesn’t remember, he doesn’t care. His uncle isn’t nearly as important to the calloused hands on his hips or the thigh pressing it’s way between his legs. He couldn’t care about his uncle’s hang ups if he /tried/. 

Against all forces of the universe, the man pulls away. Stu chases after him with a whine but he only laughs breathily, taking a good look at Stu's face. He's sure he looks mess with his wet mouth and glassy, eyes, pupil covering most of the brown. The man chuckles again and licks his own lips before retracting himself completely. Stuart feels cold suddenly and he's shivering. The nausea that usually comes with taking bars hits him full force and he swallows thickly. "See you around, luv" and the sound of the bell on the door ringing as it was closed was the last thing he hears before his uncle begins shouting at the top of his lungs all the way till 3 pm when his shift is over. He leaves without saying anything in the middle of his uncles sentence and feels his swollen lips all the way home.

__ 

Murdoc preforms his first ritual when he is 19 years old. It’s partly just a joke, partly desperation. He needs the money to be able to leave his fathers home. He’s applied for every job a high school dropout could qualify for and gets no call backs and is told politely to leave and never come back when he shows up in person to check on his application. Maybe it’s his shabby appearance or his less than stellar personality or something else that could easily be fixed with a shower but for whatever reason, he’s not getting any money by conventional means. He tried, once, to steal a bit of his brothers stash and sell it to his peers. Word quickly got back to Hannibal, however, and he has the daylights beaten out of him for his trouble. 

There is a man up the road from his father’s home that would be willing to sell him a used winnebago for roughly £650 and so far he’s got about £23 stuffed under his ratty mattress. After doing some pretty extensive research he comes across a relatively simple ritual in a book in the local library. He spends his 23 quid on 3 white candle and 1 black one. He waits weeks for the perfect time when both his brother and his dad are gone for him to set up on the nasty floor of his bedroom. He mutters some words, burns a piece of paper and focuses on how badly he needs to leave this place, on how he just needs enough to sneak off in the night. He’d do anything for it, he tells himself, although the pages on the wealth ritual said he wouldn’t have to give anything in return. 

He finishes the ritual, sweeps the ashes and candle wax off the floor and goes to sleep exhausted and anxious. 

It doesn’t work in the way he’d expect, at first it does;t work at all. He goes weeks without a penny to his name and noticing no changes. The winnie is still £650 and now he only has £3. He’s pissed off for weeks, applies to a couple jobs that are farther away just out of desperation. He gets no call back and no miracle. 

It’s 4 weeks after the ritual that he’s digging a newspaper out of the trash that he spots a 50 note in the bin just under it. He takes it, marks it as a coincidence and hides the fact that he is giddy as fuck when he stash’s it under the mattress. The money keeps coming, he buys the winnebago, he leaves. 

He does more rituals after that, some work, most don’t. He’s never asked for anything from Satan in quite the same desperation. Now he’s 32 years old and he needs something again. 

The money he finds keeps him going but so much that he can rely on it. Sometimes he can play bass on the side of the road for spare change or he can start a band from scratch any get paid for a couple low end gigs before word get’s around that his bands are terrible. This works for years until it’s not the band they associate with shittiness. It’s Murdoc. He’s only sub-par at any instrument, even the bass which he is partial to and his vocals are shit. He would let someone else sing for the sake of fame, however no one seems to understand the sound he is looking for. Although he needs fame like he needs air, he does;t want to be known as a simple bass player for a shit band. 

He’s drunk ass fuck that night in his Winnie after a gig he didn't get paid for as he hastily runs a lighter over his pocket knife in an attempt to sanitize it. He lights the candles, sets the piece of printer paper before him and rips the ink cartridge out a call point pen. 

Black Sabbath plays in the background as he cuts high on his arm and writes the prayer and his own blood. 

He speaks into the empty air around him and asks Satan for help. He needs a singer, someone to make him famous. Someone brilliant and talented and beautiful enough to be a frontman but dependent on Murdoc enough that he can’t leave him in the dust. He wants to be famous and he’ll do anything for it. 

Even give up his soul. 

He loses consciousness as the deal leaves his lips. He wakes up on the ground with blood oozing from his arm and a gleaming red eye and a new bass to match. 

He plays his new bass infrontt of the mirror, he plays stuff he didn’t know and the shit he did know sounds better. He grins at his reflection. 

He walks outside, hungry from what must be the loss of blood, and finds a 20 note on the ground. 

—

That night he sleeps easy and wakes up with a hard cock, dreaming of blue hair and black eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know its been a long time and i'm sorry but special thanks Dorie also known as turtle-to-my-right who is my new beta. now that i have Dorie hopefully chapters will come much quicker, enjoy?
> 
> also tw: blood, lots of blood in this one

He's been wonderin' when a higher power would help him, he almost resorted to praying. But if Murdoc Niccals knows anything about saving graces- it's that he's not gonna find it above so he might as well look below. 

Satanism isn't only a religion, it's also a Look. One that has made him seem scary and crazy enough to get him out of some rough and tumble situations. He never thought Big Red could actually grant him anything other than some street cred before he nicked an old red canvas book from one of them thrift shops you see off of Main St. 

Before he knew it he was kneeling, shirtless, in the middle of a pentagram drawn in his own blood that oozed along the slit in his palm. He has the book in hand, a bottle of liquor in the other. He's sweating as he takes a long pull from the bottle before reading some ancient words and then being what could only be described as transcended. He hears a voice but can see nothing. He can only presume it’s the man himself.

What do you desire from me, mortal? 

"I want to have the most famous band in all the world!" Murdoc yelled into the void.

If I grant this I require your soul in return.

"Fine!" He snaps. "Whatever you want." 

And then he's awake and all that’s changed is that his hand hurts and one of his irises is a bright, bloody red. 

How fucking disappointing. 

—

It's not until 7 years and 5 semi-popular bands that he runs an El Camino right into Stuart Pot’s head. 

Then it's not until 9 months later when he catapults him outside his vehicle and onto the cement that Stu Pot's real purpose is shown to him in the form of two beautiful, empty, black eyes.  
__

In his dream there is a warm, pleasant weight on his stomach. He opens his eyes, looking deep into twin black voids that stare at him from a pale face. Thin lips smile at him languidly, contented in their spot perched on top of him. Murdoc's hands find soft thighs and rub up from the knee and to slim hips and down again. The thin boy hums astride him, seemingly happy to be acknowledged by him. Murdoc feels a rush of pride for the little bird. He doesn't know how obviously smitten he is. Murdoc aches for this type of dependency in his partners. It makes sense he'd only get exactly wants in a dream. 

Murdoc deals with a bossy bird for months just because she has the messy blue hair he sees in his dreams. He fucks her with the lights dimmed, shadows making her eyes seem black enough to make taking his pent up aggression out just fine. She's got the worst set of pipes he's ever heard though, so even her moans sound like a dying animal. 

She's not dependent. She doesn't seek out his touch amongst all others. She can handle herself just fine. He supposes with the times now-a-days that’s good, but it's certainly not doing him any favors. Especially not when he dreams of being ridden all night long by this bloke in his dreams and really wants for her to just sit in his lap and let him touch her. She has a rally to go to. He's not going to stop her. 

Eventually he stops dealing with the blue haired bird and starts focusing on music again. He gets a rag tag little band of place holders together. They aren’t good enough at the music to make up for how absolutely useless they are in everyday life. They need instruments and none of them have the money to get any. Maybe that isn’t true, but the point is no one is coughing any of it up for the cause. 

Murdoc bullshits a plan up to drive through the window of the keyboard shop to scare the title pricks and instead of making them back down like he expected the little punks to do, they decided now was the time that they start putting the criminal notches in their belts and go all in for his plan. He decides a hearty ‘why the fuck not?’ and decides he’ll check out the place tomorrow, see if they have anything worth cashing in a five finger discount on. 

He tells the boys to meet him at his winnie in two days, but in the meantime he’s tired. 

He can’t wait to go to sleep. 

___  
Stu hasn’t been truly interested in anything for what feels like years. He remembers building instruments with his dad before he let himself become a colossal disappointment. He remembers laughing with his dad and him ruffling his hair when they got the hodge podge of parts to make the noises they wanted. He remembers being happy when he wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming. 

He told that exact story to the girl he buys weed from down the street from his job. She thought that was sweet. She also thought him speaking to her more than the regular ’tenth please’ was an invitation to crawl into his lap but he supposes that anything can be considered an invitation these days. He spaces out on the couch with his legs notched wide and his pants open, his dick wet until she either finished or she didn’t, but Stu certainly did. He takes his tenth, zips up his pants and thanks her for the pot. She lets him leave without paying. He goes back to work, small ziplock of weed and his bottle of pills stowed in his jeans pocket. 

As usual his uncle gripes at him about his hoodie so he shakes it off and tosses it under the counter before replacing it with the blue apron that he has no business wearing as an employee of a keyboard shop, He takes his place behind the counter and digs out his pill bottle for a top-off before his shift starts. As he chews on his pills he looks through the door and he half expects that man to walk through the door and start necking him again. He shivers, smells whiskey breath all around him at the thought and pops another pill in his mouth. He just wants this shift to go quickly. Wants to go home, take a nap, wake up, jerk off, go back to sleep. 

___

Stu smokes his joint and chews on two white pills before flicking off his lights and laying down on his bed. He shifts his arm, bringing his hand up through the syrup his atmosphere has become to feel at his lips. He likes to imagine they’re still swollen and tender from when he finally came in contact with the man of his dreams. 

The dreams have been coming every night know, instead of being spread out through weeks and months. Now that he has seen and felt the man, the memory fills in some of the gaps that his subconscious has made for him. Before, the feel of the man’s lips, hands, cock were vague in his dreams.Only a light source and shocks of pleasure, but no details. Now he can feel the callouses of his palms dragging up his thighs and the roughness of his stubble and the softness of his lips and that long tongue that invading his whole mouth like Stu had finally found a piece of himself he’d always been missing.. 

Had it not been for the drugs he is sure that his excitement would keep him awake.

__

He opens his eyes to his own reflection, his brown eyes bloodshot while he gazes over his naked body. His back is arched, his mouth open, his legs spread and his knees bent as he sits on the cock of whoever’s strong fingers are gripping his hips in a hot brand. He gasps as the feeling of fullness and the hot rush of his heartbeat catches up with him suddenly as if his body had been doing this before his consciousness had caught up with it. 

He lifts himself up on shaking legs and drops himself down with a rush of all the air in his lungs. He looks at himself again in the mirror and he sees a familiar face coming over his shoulder, hears him growling in his ear. 

“That’s it, love. You love it, yes?”

Stuart nods through his whines as he does his best to bounce up and down even though all he wants to do is turn around and bury his face in this man’s neck and beg him to visit him in real life again. 

In his dream the hands on his hips tighten and hold him down, speared so deep on his dick he thinks he can feel it in his throat. He whines, squirms, the need to come desperate even in his own dream. 

“Say it for me, blue bird, tell me you love it.”

The man grinds his hips up as he waits for Stu to do as he asks. 

“Use them pipes of yours.” 

Stu whimpers. “God, I lo- love it so much. I need it.” 

“You love me?” 

“Yes! I love you.”

“You need me?” 

“Yes!” He feels tears in his eyes from frustration and from the pain in his chest. “I need you so much.” 

Suddenly there is the smell of copper in the air and sticky wetness spreading under the tight grip on his hips. He looks down and he can see the blood dripping from under the man’s palms. He drags his hands up, over Stu’s chest, over his neck, down his arms and resting above his closed eyelids. Stu feels like opening them, suddenly has the urge, the need, to have this man’s blood in his body. 

The man’s hands move from his eyes down to his thighs and splay upward so Stu can look at the deep, inverted crosses cut into his palms. 

“For us.” The man growls in his ear. He feels those two words resonate through his whole body like he was listening to this man’s voice on surround sound. 

Stuart looks up from the man’s hands and sees them in the mirror’s reflection. Sees himself, covered in blood, dick hard, mouth open. The man turns his hands, grips his thighs so hard his long, pointed fingernails dig into his thighs, drawing blood. It hurts, but the noise that comes out of his mouth is a pleasured, deprived moan. The man is changing, both eyes red and shining now and his skin turning a sickly green. Horns splitting the skin of his forehead open and the blood drips into Stu’s hair. The horns curl in a jagged spiral and Stuart thinks he looks less like a demon and more like a god. 

The thrusts pick back up as the transformation stops and instead of being trapped in his awe Stuart whines. He can feel tears and blood dripping on his cheeks, off his chin, down his torso and in between where they are joined and Stu feels like the squelching sound coming from their every movement should be gross but he thinks he’s in rapture. More saved than he ever felt at the church his parents used to force him to. 

The man’s nails are gliding across his skin like knives through butter over every inch of skin he can get to an it feels like his horned god is digging out all the bad things inside of him and replacing them with himself. He is molding him like clay into whatever shape his wants him. 

The man’s thrusts reach a crescendo just as the whites of ribs tear through his skin. 

He’s bloody, a massacre. Bones, organs and tendons bare to the man and all he feels is finally forgiven of his sins. The mirror is sprayed with his arterial blood and the last thing he sees is those healing hands moving towards his face and he both cums and awakens to the feeling of his eyes being gouged out by the man of his dreams. 

__

Murdoc squeezes the girl’s thighs like he can flatten them through sheer force of will. Like if he prayed hard enough, Satan would take this woman as an offering to put the one he wanted underneath him instead. He’s already asked for enough though. He can see his gifts just over the horizon, and he knows he can be patient enough to wait if only as this bird would just shut the fuck up. She whines, babbles his name over and over again in that high, squeal of a voice that just grinds his bones into a dust. He wants to reach down her throat and pull out her windpipe and maybe then he’d be able to come while she bleeds out. 

Instead , he covers her mouth with his hand and she moans underneath it like this is some kink nonsense that he’s putting her through. He rolls his eyes and forces himself to find his release. 

When he’s finally found himself growling into the pillow besides the bird’s head and then rolling of her, narrowly misses the edge and tumbling to the floor. Her voice is squeaking in his ear, she’s complaining about some such or other and all he can think about is how he wants her blood on his hands. 

Murdoc shakes his head. He needs a drink. He stands and walks to the kitchenette of his hotel room and searches through empty and half full bottles of liquor until he finds one that feels the fullest. 

He doesn't consider himself a violent person. Ever since his last dream, one that he considers both extremely sexually gratifying and immensely terrifying, his tolerance for annoying behaviors has become even lower than it had been. He thinks of the man he knows is out there, one that Satan himself has guaranteed can fulfill his every desire. This person needs him with every fibre of his being. 

Murdoc Niccals is tired of dealing with people to who do not properly appreciate him. He is a demi-god in his own right and of his own volition. In his mind he has crawled from the pits of his own personal hell and like Hades and his willing Persephone he will tempt his own lover to his side. 

He just has to wait.


End file.
